


Turning Memories

by jesuisaubergine



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! - All Media Types, Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alchemy of Thiefshipping, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Language, Post-Canon, Shadow magic, Thiefshipping, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-19 18:58:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16540286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisaubergine/pseuds/jesuisaubergine
Summary: Years have past and Malik is left to mourn his unrealized feelings towards his old partner. When given a chance to turn back time and relive the events of Battle City, he finds himself fighting for (and with) Bakura. However, memories are difficult to face and a fate engraved in stone is not so easily unwritten. Malik finds that making a new future for both of them may be more difficult than he thought.





	1. Hourglass

**Author's Note:**

> _“You have loved_   
>  _You have seen_   
>  _Through the darkest nights that steal your dreams_   
>  _You have gone_   
>  _Slipped away_   
>  _Only time will help to ease this pain…_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  _Spiraling the hourglass…”_  
>  -Hourglass by Queensrÿche

The wooden blades spiraled lazily above the bed, a faint breeze circulating the air. The blinds blocked out any light that threatened to creep in. Normally, Malik would welcome any light into the room, but at the moment, his childhood fear felt distant when compared to the pain that wracked his body.

Malik stared up at the ceiling fan, eyes glazing over, as he let himself be hypnotized by the repetitive pattern. Even if he could be lulled to sleep, Malik would only wake up a few hours later, restless and weighed down by the ever-constant feeling of defeat that hung over him every day.

Malik sighed, turning on his side to stare at the bedspread, a hand clenching the silky fabric next to him. When he left the tomb years ago, Malik swore he would never let himself sleep on rough fiber, like a constant scab that irritated his old scars. Gone were the days of wool, and in its place, Malik had bought himself blankets made of purple satin.

Strange how time had changed him so much and yet so little. He would not go back to the rough textures on his tortured back, yet his violet sheets were gone. No longer needing to feign royalty, Malik had ditched the purple sheets for sheets of a new color. Instead of purple, his new silk sheets were a striking burgundy. Rishid and Isis had puzzled over this change, but Malik had never told them why. They wouldn’t understand.

After all, red was _his_ favorite color.

Malik’s eyes squeezed shut, fingers digging into the sheets but finding no escape from the heartache. It wasn’t fair. Five years had already passed and yet Malik found himself hurting more every passing day. Each day he suffered through reminded him that the Spirit wasn’t with him anymore, that his soul had been eaten up and devoured by Ammit for his crimes.

Bakura was gone.

“You damn fool,” Malik muttered softly, pretending it was Bakura lying next to him and he was scolding him for his pigheadedness.

After the final shadow game, Yugi had said little of what had happened. Malik knew that the Spirit had been planning something, something big. Malik figured he would see him after the Final Shadow Game.

But when Malik had led his friends to the ceremonial duel, it had become clear that Bakura was no longer with them. He, like the Pharaoh, had passed on from this world—Atem to Aaru, Bakura to nothingness.

They called it justice. Malik called it arrogance.

Not that Malik would ever say that to Yugi and his friends. They grieved Atem’s passing, like an old friend who had finally found peace. Malik had played the role, knowing that was what they expected of him. Even as his heart tore to pieces and Malik finally understanding the conflicting emotions that plagued him in the months after Battle City, he smiled and comforted his friends.

After all, how he could admit he had fallen in love with the Ring Spirit?

Heat burned Malik’s eyes, much to his shame. He turned his face into the sheets, doing little to keep the tears from prickling in the corner of his eyes. Five years. Malik should have learned to move past this, but he couldn’t. Instead, he wallowed in shame at how pathetic he had become, grieving his lost love.

As if sensing his moment of weakness, his phone started to vibrate. Malik blinked an eye open, vision somewhat blurry as he reached blindly out for the phone laying on the bed. After a few seconds of searching, he looked at the screen, where a picture of Isis eating a cup of vanilla ice cream at the park one particularly hot summer day greeted him.

Malik didn’t want to answer the phone, but he also knew ignoring his sister would only worry her. Well, worry her more than she was already. Malik rolled onto his stomach, looking down at his phone. Taking in a deep breath, an old smile slid back onto his face, one he had mastered back in Battle City.

“Hi, Isis! Isn’t it a bit late for you to be calling?” Malik teased with more energy than he felt. Even continents apart, his sister had a sixth sense when sensing deception, so Malik had to mask his emotions carefully when on a call with her.

“Hello, Malik. I was out late at a work dinner party and just got back. I thought I’d catch you before you head to class,” Isis responded, light and cheerful.

Malik knew better than to think he had fooled his sister. Though she was the more honest of the two, Isis could be deceptive when she wanted to be. “Still, I’m surprised to see you calling. Isn’t it past your bed time?”

“Just because I prefer my quiet mornings over late night parties doesn’t mean I can’t have fun, Malik.” Despite her amiable tone, her words had a bite to them, a refusal to be mocked for her rigid schedule.

“If you say so. Still surprised you haven’t gone to bed yet.”

“I will in a bit. I wanted to check in and see how you’re doing,” Isis said, though the intent of her words was clear.

Malik stared down at the red silk sheets, like blood pooling about him. His words caught in his throat for a moment before he finally rushed forward speaking. “I’m doing okay. Yugi’s been over a few times to invite me out, so it’s been fun seeing everybody.”

All things considered, these technically were not lies. Granted, Malik wasn’t entirely being honest, but that wasn’t the point. Yugi had made a point of spending time with Malik, offering him a chance for friendship. In other circumstances, Malik would have welcomed a chance to redeem himself, to get a clean start in life.

But Malik couldn’t do that while his heart dwelled in the past.

“That’s good. Been busy around Domino City then?” Isis asked, her words rushed and filled with hope.

Malik bit back a sigh, changing it to a light chuckle. “You could say that. My Japanese is getting really good by now. I’m practically a native.” Diverting away from the topic of Yugi and his friends and the memories associated with them seemed like a good idea.

Isis accepted this shift gracefully, moving along with the changing topic with ease. “That’s good to hear. I was a bit worried when you mentioned studying abroad, but it seems I had nothing to worry about.”

Malik was grateful that his sister remained quiet about her other concerns. Every call seemed to route itself back to his depressive and reclusive behavior. Still, Malik was eager to move out of the spotlight and let their conversation flow to Isis’s life once again.

“Hey, speaking of languages, how goes learning French, by the by?”

Isis paused, seemingly confused by Malik’s knowledge of the topic. “How did you—“

“Rishid told me about it last week when he called.”

Despite all the weariness Malik bore, a smile cracked on his face at the indignant huff on the other side of the phone.

“That blabbermouth.”

Malik danced through the conversation easily from there, allowing Isis to fill the conversation about work and travel and family affairs. Any time Isis would try to bring the conversation back to Malik, he would successfully navigate the questions away. He knew what his sister wanted, but it would be easier to convince her that he was fine if they just didn’t talk about him.

Even though Malik knew he wasn’t okay.

As the clock ticked closer to his evening class, Malik finally escaped his conversation with his sister. With a promise to text her when he got home safely and to call her next week (which he would likely forget), Malik dropped the phone back on the bed, staring at the “call ended,” smile slipping away from his face.

Malik loved his sister, and she knew that. It had taken years to mend their relationship after their previous animosity, but each day it became easier. Yet, Malik curled into himself, feeling raw. He hadn’t divulged anything personal and yet, the desire to cry and weep washed over him again. Not that he had the energy to do so.

Malik considered skipping his night class, but knew it would draw the attention of his classmate. Ryou had asked Malik to take the night class with him so he would have a buddy. Malik figured Ryou did this as a favor to Yugi, what with the two dating each other. It didn’t hurt that Ryou’s father worked with Isis.

So if Malik didn’t show up to class tonight, Yugi would know and then his sister would know. That was a conversation Malik wanted to avoid.

With a heavy sigh, Malik sat up on the bed, trying to muster up the energy for the three hour class ahead. Remembering to turn off the ceiling fan, Malik left his bedroom, glancing into the kitchen on his right. He couldn’t remember when his last meal was, but Malik wasn’t hungry yet, so he decided to skip dinner. The sooner he got through his class, the sooner he could go to sleep.

At least in his dreams, Malik could see Bakura one more time.

* * *

University became the perfect cover to hide the depths of Malik’s depression had been suffering for several years.

It was easy to pretend that he was exhausted from studying or had too much homework or had to go research. The university environment provided Malik with a plethora of excuses as to why he couldn’t hang out. Living off campus in his own apartment gave him the quiet and solitude he desired as well.

Between working at the museum and university life, Malik could excuse himself from all outings he didn’t want to take part in. Which, given the number of unread texts from Yugi that had piled up on Malik’s phone, was all of them. His patented Namu smile and flustered apologies seemed to sell the crew on the sincerity of his excuses for his disappearances.

Well, it worked on most of them.

Malik had his satchel packed before class was even over. The moment the professor slammed his textbook shut, Malik sprinted for the door, feigning exhaustion and annoyance at the night class to avoid any potential chitchat that could delay him. This strategy usually worked pretty well, especially on Ryou who, like Yugi, often tried to check in on him.

This evening, however, Ryou was ready, backpack already tossed over his shoulder as he chased after Malik. “Malik, wait up!”

Malik scowled, his expression hidden from his white-haired companion. He closed his eyes for a moment, debating whether he should pretend he didn’t hear him. Malik didn’t want to force small talk. He just wanted to go home and lie in bed and ponder the “what if’s” in his life. Malik didn’t tolerate fools.

Or at least, he’d always thought he didn’t. But five years had turned him soft, and Malik’s feet slowed to a halt. He waited for Ryou to catch up to him, giving his friend a thin-lipped smile. “Sorry—night classes aren’t my thing and I’m ready to split once it’s over.”

Ryou nodded, taking a moment to catch his breath. “Don’t I know it. I don’t care for them either, but I had to get this course done with and I figured it’d be easier to get through it with a friend.”

The corners of Malik’s mouth pinched upward, but it was only a shadow of a smile. Domino City was both a reprieve and a complication in his life. It reminded Malik too much of everything that had happened, but not as much as home did. His feelings towards Yugi and his friends were complicated to begin with, but each day, things smoothed themselves out a bit more.

But Malik couldn’t feel the same about Ryou.

Ryou had done nothing wrong. But that was the problem. Malik had used him like a puppet, not giving a whit about what happened to the “host” so long as the goals he’d had were accomplished. Back then, Malik had been willing to risk sacrifice Ryou without a second thought.

And Ryou still called him his friend.

Malik turned away, looking through the window on the door, out into the darkness that now cloaked the city. He tried to think of something to say to fill the silence, but he couldn’t speak. He frowned, walking ahead with Ryou keeping pace next to him. Based on previous interactions, it was only a matter of time bef-

“Malik, are you okay? You seem quiet.”

Right on cue. Malik gave him glancing smile, brows furrowed. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”

The dismissive tone should have ended the conversation, but Ryou frowned, not buying the excuse. “You don’t have to lie. I know something’s bothering you. Yugi notices it too, but he thinks… it’s because of—of our past.”

Ryou’s spoke in chunks, struggling to find a way to phrase things without pinning the blame on either of them, but even still, the words fell flat. Malik’s quick response was eaten up by his preoccupation with Ryou’s wording, specifically “our.”

Still, if Yugi was kind enough to provide an excuse for his depressed attitude, then Malik could use that to his advantage. He glanced away, almost wistfully. “… Things are complicated, yes, but what’s done is done. I can’t fix what I’ve done nor can the Pharaoh undo three thousand years of tradition. But we can keep moving forward. Things are getting better in my life.”

Marik inwardly complimented himself on the little work of speech he’d constructed just then. He’d almost convinced himself. Malik smiled, following the sidewalk as the lampposts guided their way off campus.

To his surprise, Ryou grabbed him by the arm, before immediately letting him go. Malik blinked, noticing the flash of anger across Ryou’s face which disappeared a moment later. For a split second, the jaded look had reminded him of the Ring Spirit and made Malik’s heart race. His ears burned with shame when he realized his mistake, tearing his gaze away to avoid looking at Ryou.

The two stood silently, glaring down at the ground before Ryou finally spoke his mind. “Things aren’t getting better though. I thought you’d understand.”

Malik bit his lip, his body trembling even though the air was warm around them. “Understand what?”

Ryou rubbed one of his arms, turning to look up at the streetlamp. His expression softened, his shoulders slumping down in released tension. “You miss him, don’t you?”

Malik snapped his gaze down, his heart pounding his chest. There was no way Ryou should know about this and even if he did, Malik didn’t want to talk to him about it. Not after everything Malik had put Ryou through. Not when Ryou so resembled the Ring Spirit (or rather the Ring Spirit resembled him).

“… Who?”

Ryou snorted, the sound mocking his pain. “Don’t play dumb, Malik. It’s okay to say that you miss him…that you miss the Ring Spirit…I’m not sure if I’d say I’m fond of him, but I wished better for him than what he got.”

Malik shook his head, not hearing Ryou’s words. The thin façade that Malik maintained started to shatter and the suffocating pressure that hung over him started to swell.  He couldn’t talk about him here. He needed to retreat, to bury himself in his grief and waste away until he could finally pass from this world and exist in nothingness. Better to be eaten by Ammit and not feel this pain any longer.

“Malik.” Ryou’s voice repeated his name, trying to get his attention, but Malik couldn’t focus. He never did well trying to focus when he was overstimulated. Not that he was overstimulated, per se, but the topic was too stressful to handle in real time. Malik needed everything to slow down until he could gather himself and then remove himself.

But Ryou didn’t give him that option. Instead, Ryou gently led him to sit down on a bench, clearly panicked at Malik’s lack of response. Malik leaned forward and pressed his forehead into his palms. He needed to calm down.

“Malik, are you okay? Should I go get help? Do I need to call someone—“

Despite everything, Malik started to laugh. “Ryou, just give me a moment and stop asking questions.”

He could tell Ryou wanted to check in on him, but his friend managed to restrain himself. He truly was too helpful for his own good. That’s probably how he ended up being used and hurt so often by them back in Battle City.

Fuck, even when Malik tried to clear his mind, it all circled back to Battle City. It all came back to the thief in the Millennium Ring.

Maybe he did need to talk about it out loud to clear his mind. Clearly whatever he was doing now wasn’t working.

Malik sighed, keeping his hands in place to avoid looking over. “I feel this pressure. Like I have to get better. But I can’t get better. Each day, I think about him and I feel guilty because I shouldn’t care about him. He did awful things and hurt people. But at the same time, I did awful things too…I don’t know. Why was I given a second chance and not him? Why was he judged and his soul swallowed while I found my redemption?”

Ryou, to his surprise, remained silent, letting Malik voice these thoughts. He didn’t know if he felt better, but he did finally put words to what consumed him. That Malik had a chance to be different. Bakura never did. No one ever let him know that he could choose another path. That he could find his way back to the light.

Malik had never let him know that he would help Bakura find his light.

Malik let his hands drop into his lap, staring out into the street. “…I can’t tell Yugi. He wouldn’t understand.”

Ryou gave a slow nod. “I know. That’s why I haven’t said anything until now.”

Malik closed his eyes, unable to admit the part that was clearest in his mind. A secret he could never confess, but Ryou probably knew. Ryou had to know or else he wouldn’t have even brought up the topic. Because despite his talk of redeeming Bakura and giving the Ring Spirit a second chance, it all came down to the simplest yet most intimate emotion of all.

Malik loved Bakura.

And even if Malik couldn’t say it out loud, he knew it. That thought consumed him and gave him his raison d’etre. Whether to honor his memory or pull him out of oblivion to finally tell him, it was all Malik had left.

Ryou tilted his head back, staring into the night sky. “Did you ever go see the diorama I built for the last Shadow Game?”

Malik blinked, not comprehending. “I thought Bakur—I mean, the Ring Spirit made that.”

Ryou snorted. “With what tools and craftsmanship? I built it all for him.”

Malik shook his head, frowning. “Why? You had to have known what he was planning on doing.”

Ryou paused, sinking into the bench. He started to pick at his nails, eyes flicking downward. “It was important to him…I knew he had to do it. No matter the cost, he had to. In a way, I think he knew that he would either be redeemed or damned by this game and it had to happen.”

Malik slammed his eyes shut. That damn fool of a Spirit. He would be too proud to let go of his rage and submit. He’d always refused to step away from battles he knew he couldn’t win. He dove into each struggle with the vigor and belief that he would triumph no matter what. Even if he knew there was no chance of victory, Bakura fought every last second.

That fighting spirit had ended up bringing about his doom.

“The diorama is in the Domino museum now. I go back there, trying to figure out what could have gone differently if I’d DMed the game and not the Spirit,” Ryou admitted, a blush on his face. “I don’t know if he could have found a better ending, but I always wondered if I could have done something instead of allowing myself to be shoved away, left to wake up and discover it was already over.”

Malik had seen the diorama in the museum. Working there, he had come across it, but Malik avoided it. Even though it was just a game map depicting historical events, it reminded Malik that this was the place that Bakura finally and truly died for the final time. And Malik bore enough guilt in his life as it was.

“What good is ruminating about it now? He’s gone and with him, shadow magic as well,” Malik spat out.

Ryou chuckled, shaking his head. “You think so? I’m not so sure. I don’t think magic can be sealed away so easily.”

Malik kept his gaze down, wondering what Ryou was implying. Since the Pharaoh found his resting place years before, all magic (theoretically) should have left this plane as well. But then again, the magic should have never existed to begin with.

A thought crossed Malik’s mind—a particularly dangerous idea that Ryou probably hadn’t meant to plant, but it was too late already.

“Malik, I’m not sure if it’s my place to say this, but maybe you should check out the diorama if you haven’t already. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but I feel like there’s magic still there. I don’t know—I guess I want to believe that the Ring Spirit has one last trick up his sleeve. One last heist, to escape death once again,” Ryou muttered, pulling on the sleeves of his shirt.

Malik raised an eyebrow, not sure if he liked the idea. “Why don’t you go check it out if you’re sold on the idea?”

“I have. Multiple times. But I can’t find what I’m looking for…I don’t exactly know what it is I’m looking for, but—” Ryou shrugged, a scowl on his face. “I don’t know. I thought I’d at least share the idea with you…”

Malik tilted his head back to look at the lamppost above them. It was a fool’s wish, but that didn’t stop Malik’s heart from racing at the thought of a chance of seeing Bakura again. After all, what else did he have to live for? He would waste his life away, mourning his loss. If this childish dream of his kept him going one more day, then perhaps it would be worth the effort.

Or maybe it would shatter his heart even further, reminding him of everything he could never have.

Malik stood up, raising his arms about his head. He winced at the bones cracking along his spine, both a relief and an unpleasant sensation underneath his scars. Ryou looked up at him wide-eyed, waiting for some confirmation or answer to his suggestion.

Instead, Malik turned his gaze away, staring into the darkness. “It’s getting cold out. Let’s get going.”

* * *

The only reason why Isis permitted Malik to move back to Domino City was because Rishid already worked in the city. Even still, she had voiced her concern about Malik going back—not that she doubted his intentions, but she worried that the memories would be too much for him.

She was probably right, but that didn’t stop Malik from returning.

When Malik had first moved to Domino City, Rishid had helped him land a job working at the museum with him. Their intimate knowledge of Egyptology made the two a perfect match for the department. Even now, Malik couldn’t escape the legacy of his family. If he wasn’t serving some unnamed Pharaoh, bearing the scars for it, then he would keep his country’s history, bearing a new pain in his heart.

Still, working at the museum gave him privileges and access to certain artifacts unavailable to the public. It gave Malik a place to escape from his usual cycle of self-pity and mourning, and it forced him to go out.

Several days after his conversation with Ryou, Malik found him working the evening shift with his brother. Malik’s office was right next door to his brother’s, though they rarely spoke a word to each other. Rishid was a man of few words in general, even more so while working.

Malik stared at his computer screen, mind glazing over as he looked over the various sections for the catalogue. He looked to his left where he stacked the books he had already added to the system. The work was monotonous, but the pay was good, which in Malik’s book was good enough.

Still, it didn’t sit well with him that he only worked here because his siblings wanted to keep an eye on him.

As if in defiance of this thought, Malik stood up, raising his arms above his head. An awful pain shot through his shoulder, his skin tighter today than usual. The weather had been drier than normal recently in Domino City, and Malik could feel its effect on his skin.

Ignoring the pain, Malik walked to the door and rested his hand on the doorframe. He glanced over into Rishid’s office, where his brother was busy going through what looked like emails. Figuring that he wouldn’t be missed for a few minutes, Malik left the offices behind and wandered through the empty halls of the museum.

Though the museum was closed to the public, their jobs in research meant the building was always open to Malik and Rishid when they requested it. Malik preferred the quiet of the empty museum, the soft click of his shoes against the linoleum floor echoing through the building. He was alone, but he wasn’t crushed with loneliness here. His apartment became a prison to his thoughts, but the museum was a sanctuary to all that passed.

As if his feet sensed his trail of thoughts, Malik ended up in the Ancient Egypt section. He knew he would end up here. He never could escape where his thoughts led him, even years later. Despite his fears, his horrors, his grief—everything always came back to Egypt. It was where it all started, and it was also where it all ended.

Or at least, it was supposed to have ended. Malik wasn’t sure anymore.

His conversation with Ryou hung in the back of his mind, a hopeful voice believing that magic still existed in this world. Malik was less certain of such a thing. If magic still existed, it would be the good kind that was left, and not shadow magic. And such good and pure magic wouldn’t be able to save Bakura’s body and soul. Even if he deserved the chance to redeem himself.

Malik shook his head, pausing in front of a replica of the Millennium Items in their final resting place. The original Items were buried under a hundred feet of rubble, lost to all time and now free of the tendrils of dark magic. Even still, Malik’s heart clenched when his eyes rested on the Millennium Ring, now hanging limp and lacking any shine. A useless gold trinket. Rubbish.

…

The sight of gold choked Malik, like the weight of the Ring hanging off his neck. The imaginary cord tightened, threatening to suffocate him, yet he was no closer to tearing the Spirit away from the cursed artifact. Malik squeezed his eyes shut, blocking the cursed artifacts from sight, and forced his feet forward, away from the terrible memories.

Malik didn’t open his eyes until he knew the Items were behind him, his eyes narrowing as they studied the texts cordoned off from the viewing public. Perhaps his crippling depression and anguish made him reckless, but Malik stepped past the barrier, protocol be damned, and approached these documents. Two thin sheets of papyrus and a thick book between the two historical files laid before him.

Malik glanced over the first sheet, snapping his gaze away when he realized it was a historical account of what happened in Kul Elna. According the court record, that is. Never mind that families were slaughtered and their blood spilled to bring this cursed magic into the world. The same magic that nearly destroyed the world years later.

Unfortunately, history was written by the victors.

Malik turned to look over the other document, another recounting of the life of the Pharaoh Atem and his legacy. He was the hero in this tale. History would remember his name even when he could not. Malik’s back was carved open for that same legacy.

Again, Malik wondered why he chose to return to this place.

Malik nearly gave up, not wanting to relive these terrible memories, but paused at the book before him. There was a strange aura about it, one that Malik recognized. Something that warped and twisted the air about him. It had been years since he had last held the Millennium Rod, but Malik could never forget the feeling, the power and liberation the tool provided him.

Whatever this book was, Shadow magic hung close. But that didn’t make sense—all such magic should have been sealed away. That was why Atem could finally rest, because the cursed artifacts had finally been put aside and sealed for all eternity. Yugi and his companions had come to that realization.

But then again, Ryou had been skeptical of the situation and expressed that to Malik. Such ancient magic was tricky to keep from this world. Not even a mere ceremonial duel could seal away such potent forces.

Malik shook his head. It was wishful thinking on his part that drew him here. He only wished that magic still existed because then it would give him an excuse, permission even, to do what he desired most. Justice be damned, Malik knew what he wanted and he was never one to refuse the opportunity to take what he wanted.

Perhaps he had more of the thief in him than he thought.

It was this thought that led Malik’s steps forward towards the ancient text. A fool’s wish. That was all it was. Wishful thinking had never gotten Malik anywhere in life. Hopes and dreams hadn’t gotten him out of the tombs. Well wishes didn’t stop his father’s abuse and years of psychological trauma. Malik saw an opportunity to escape and he took it, using every weapon at hand to liberate himself.

Magic had been his liberation then. Perhaps it could still liberate Bakura from whatever binded him from beyond the grave.

Malik reached a hand out, his fingers brushing against the worn cover. Thin, yellow pages stuck out unevenly past the binding, likely torn and shuffled about over the years. Even now, Malik felt that familiar hum, that old power that stirred in his soul. Magic was supposed to be gone. This was nothing more than his memories playing tricks on him.

But if it wasn’t a trick…

Malik’s fingers gripped the corner of the cover, a shiver trailing down his spine. Bakura was dead, his soul swallowed by Ammit and gone for eternity. Or so the myths went. If there was any magic in the world that could reverse the damage, that could warp their reality and bring back the Ring Spirit, it would be in this text. The same text that released magic in their world would unleash it once again.

Malik would conquer its secrets, stealing its knowledge, to get what he wanted most. Malik pulled back the cover, flipping through a few pages before stopping, eyes scanning the ancient text. It had been years since he’d last read it, but the words floated before him, clear and stark against the yellow pages. Like the Winged Dragon of Ra, Malik understood, the words ringing in his mind as if he spoke to the spell out loud.

Malik was pinned to the spot as he realized that the spell was already being cast.

Malik jerked in his spot, or at least, he thought he did. His muscles twitched and his eyes tried to tear themselves away, but Malik was glued to where he stood, transfixed by the text before him. Malik’s mind flailed, trying to block the spell, not sure of its magic, a panic of the unknown warning him that turning to Shadow Magic was a terrible idea. He knew it nearly cost him his life last time, yet for some reason, Malik returned.

The air grew heavy, a pressure that extended past his mind and into the room around him. The lights flickered, the shadows growing long and heavy. Malik felt the panic grow in him, the darkness returning, yet he remained frozen, eyes glazed over as he looked at the text. He had no control over his physical body, locked in his spot until the spell finished and Malik, the medium to said magic, no longer existed.

The very magic that Malik sought to control now controlled him. Malik tried to think of any way to escape, to break out of the trance, _to not die._ Malik couldn’t die, he couldn’t let the magic consume him. If he died, his soul would be weighed. And in that moment, Malik knew he would rather his soul be devoured than find peace in Aaru.

An eternity without the Spirit of the Ring was an eternity not worth spending.

Malik resigned himself to his doom, purple tinging his peripheral vision. His body grew heavy, weighed down by both magic and exhaustion. The constant battle every day to find a raison d’etre wore on him. Perhaps he did need to rest. Maybe it was better this way.

Malik closed his eyes, wondering who would greet him on the other side…

… But he never got the chance to find out as a strong pair of hands yanked Malik away.

The physical touch was enough to jolt Malik, as if slamming his soul back into his body. He was aware that someone was pushing him away, sending Malik flying backwards as he landed on the cold tile. He blinked, his sight having gone dark now that the text no longer blinded him. Instead, Malik stared at the off-white flooring, shaking his head.

Even the impact of his back hitting the floor felt distant. That should have told Malik that something was deeply wrong, but it wasn’t until the buzzing in his head disappeared and the pair of hands gripped his shoulders again that Malik finally made sense of what had happened. He didn’t need his brother yelling at him to let him know of his mistakes.

“I’m sorry! I’m fine! I swear! I didn’t mean—” Malik choked out, caught between wanting to shove Rishid away and wanting to pull him closer and bury himself into his elder brother’s chest so he could finally weep over everything he had felt over the years.

“Malik! What were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself kille-“ Rishid’s voice was harsh, biting, yet it revealed the depths of his fear for his little brother.

Malik shook his head, refusing both of his earlier instincts and curling in on himself. His arms wrapped around his waist, Malik hunching in, head dipping low. “I know! I wasn’t thinking, I just—I’m sorry! I promise I wasn’t trying to do anything—Rishid, please!”

Rishid appeared torn between discipline and forgiveness, though his eyes grew soft as he looked over Malik. The grip on Malik’s shoulder grew slack, though Rishid didn’t remove his hands. “I know, I know…Malik, I know you mean well, but please…don’t go near the Tome…It’s—“

Rishid stopped speaking, unable to find the words. Malik nodded, keeping his head down, letting his bangs cover his face. “I know. I swear, I didn’t mean for anything to happen. I wasn’t thinking and I figured a look couldn’t hurt, but then—“

“I understand…shadow magic has a way of deceiving all who seek something with all their heart.”

Malik shook, but didn’t respond. Rishid seemed to intuit exactly what was going on and what Malik wanted. Rishid didn’t reveal this knowledge, even though he knew.

The two sat there on the museum floor, Malik shivering, though the air was not unusually cold. He could feel Rishid’s eyes watching him, surveying him in careful observation. Malik forced himself to take several slow, even breaths, but he still couldn’t shake the chills that ran through his body. He didn’t know how to respond, or how to fight back against this reaction.

Rishid sighed, leaning back on his haunches. Malik thought for a moment that he would get away without any further remarks. But clearly, Malik didn’t realize how pitiful his attempts at hiding the depths of his despair were.

“Malik…I don’t think you should remain in Domino.”

The words were like ice water to his system, Malik jerking back as if electrified by the suggestion. “What?”

Rishid shook his head. “It’s consuming you. This place…there are too many memories and it’s destroying you. I can’t watch you live like this anymore—neither can Isis.”

What his brother had suggested felt impossible for Malik. “Rishid, no! I don’t want to leave Domino! I’m fine—“

“But you aren’t. You’re lying through your teeth. You can’t even look me in the eye when you say that,” Rishid shot back, Malik affirming the statement when he tore his gaze down.

Malik shook his head, unable to put into words why he couldn’t leave. He didn’t know how to explain the undying need to remain in Domino, if only to better remember him. Instead, his eyes burned and he scooted away from Rishid, refusing any comfort. He knew what he wanted most in this world—the one thing he could never have.

They couldn’t take him away from this place either.

Rishid sensed the agony in his brother, standing up with a heavy sigh. Malik remained sitting on the floor, gaze focused on the flooring before him. “… We can talk about this later. For now, why don’t you finish up your part of the catalogue and call it a night?”

Malik didn’t say anything, but knew Rishid’s words were orders. Even now, Malik knew how this would all play out. His brother would leave and call their sister, letting her know what had happened. She would Skype him to check in before they finally had a family conference where Malik’s life choices would be discussed.

But given the danger that Malik nearly brought upon himself, he suspected he would have little say on what he wanted. Not after threatening to release Shadow magic on this world.

When Rishid’s footsteps ceased echoing through the museum, Malik finally shuffled to his feet, a sense of defeat washing over him. Perhaps Rishid was right in that he needed some space from Domino. It would give him the time away he needed. But time away from what? The place where he last saw Bakura? The memories of a soul that matched him wit for wit, word for word?

Malik glanced around the exhibit, both familiar and foreign to him. This place held everything and nothing for him. He had nothing to gain by staying here, but everything that mattered to him rested in this place. And there was nothing to do but agonize over this. Even now, magic couldn’t help him.

Shadow magic couldn’t restore Bakura’s soul. It would only take Malik’s and call it a fair trade.

Malik’s head hung low as he made his way through the rest of the exhibit. He ignored everything until he passed through the last room, eyes settling on the diorama that sat in the center. The very one that Ryou built for the Ring Spirit’s final game.

Malik frowned, walking to the side of the gameboard. Despite it being just that—a game—it reflected the geography and details of the world those many years prior. That wasn’t what Malik focused on. Instead, his eyes rested on a lone figurine with silver hair and a bright red cloak.

Bakura.

Malik stopped in front of the tiny figurine standing atop a cavern. A thin scar was painted onto his right cheek, slicing upward into his eye. He stood where the village of Kul Elna once laid, though the placard failed to mention those people who died. History was written by the victors after all.

Malik held onto the figurine, unwilling to let it go. It was all that he had to remember Bakura, who he once was. Never did he have a chance to reclaim his humanity, so Malik held on to the game piece, deciding to keep his humanity for himself. The rest of the world may forget, but Malik wouldn’t. He would keep remembering the thief turned demon, trapped in gold, resting in darkness.

Malik walked over to the end of the table, where the DM would have sat. Bakura, no doubt, manipulated this game to his favor. So certain of his victory and of finally receiving the justice his people deserved. Instead, fate played favorites that day.

Though the game notes were all gone, Malik noticed the three hourglasses on this end of the table. Two laid sideways, having already been spent during the game. The third remained untouched, Bakura never having been given the chance to pull his last trick and claim victory.

Malik picked up the hourglass, a smirk on his face. Of course Bakura would think of something like a time-controlling device to skew the game. But playing against the King of Games meant that his fate had been sealed before the game even started. But despite that, had Bakura had a chance of victory? Given the chance, had there been an opportunity that Bakura could have used to triumph and find redemption for his people?

Malik looked down at the game piece in one hand and the hourglass in the other. The game was already over, but Malik couldn’t help thinking of what he would do in the game. He thought about how he wished he could turn back the wheels of time, to before the game had started, and finally tell Bakura how he felt. To not hide from his feelings, but let the Ring Spirit know he was not alone.

Maybe nothing would have changed, but still…

Malik held the statuette of the thief to his chest, holding him close to his heart. Did a piece of his soul still rest in the figurine? Did he know even now that he still captured Malik’s heart? These questions hung in Malik’s mind as he looked down at the hourglass. Just one chance to do it all again. Perhaps that was all he needed. Malik flipped the hourglass in his hand, watching as the sand dribbled down.

Malik suddenly lurched, a force pulling him forward by his chest, and his vision went black.

Malik panicked, wondering if the Shadow magic had managed to slip past his guard and was consuming him now that Rishid was gone. But this felt different. It wasn’t just his soul being tugged away, but his entire physical being. Malik’s breath stilled, his eyes searching blankly around, but the diorama fell from sight.

Malik reached a hand out, only to see his fingers crumbling into dust as well.

Malik screamed, but nothing came out. There was no pain, no sensation, nothing. He thought madly for a reason for such magic, but just as Malik tried to make sense of the darkness surrounding him, light returned. Malik squinted, startled by the sunlight. This didn’t make any sense—he had been indoors, and it was evening no less. So why was the mid-afternoon sun blinding him?

That was when Malik realized he wasn’t at the museum. Instead, he looked down at his motorcycle, golden jewelry flashing in the sunlight, hair tossing about from under his helmet. Malik frowned, wondering if this was some sort of hallucination. That was the only thing that made sense at the moment.

He tore his gaze up as he whizzed through the narrow alleys and streets of Domino City. He knew this path. He had travelled through here before, but he couldn’t put his finger on when. He clenched his hand tighter around the handle, noticing that something else was in his hand.

A quick flick of the eyes down told Malik that he still held the figurine.

“… The hell?” Malik muttered, not comprehending this vision.

But the question dropped from his mind when Malik noticed someone dart out from around the corner. He narrowed his eyes, his heart stuttering in his chest when he saw the wild, white hair, the confident smirk, the dark eyes with a crimson edge that mocked him. He knew that look. He knew that man, or rather spirit taken flesh.

“Bakura?”

Malik grinned, not caring if this was nothing more than a dream or a wishful thought. Never had Bakura been so clear in his dreams. He wanted to run his hands through the tangled mess of white hair. He wanted to jab and mock and spar verbally with his old dueling partner. He wanted to race towards him and throw his arms around the thief.

But Malik forgot that he was, indeed, racing towards Bakura. In his disorientation and excitement, Malik forgot about the motorbike that had him sailing towards Bakura at high speeds.

Now Malik remembered. When he had first met Bakura, he had nearly run into the stranger. It was only because of Malik’s quick reflexes that he managed to pull his motorcycle to a stop before hitting him. But Malik still struggled to process his new surroundings. Seeing Bakura was like a jolt to his system, paralyzing him from acting when he needed to.

Malik’s heart raced. He hit the brakes as quickly as he could, but he was already moving too fast. The motorcycle shook and wobbled harshly, protesting the sudden stop. Bakura’s eyes widened as he suddenly realized the sheer stupidity of jumping in front of moving vehicle, and he darted as fast as he could out of Malik’s way, but everything was happening too fast.

Malik swore as the bike twisted to the side and finally threw Malik off, slamming him into Bakura, sending the two sprawling across the dirty alleyway.


	2. Sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“If I could save time in a bottle_   
>  _The first thing that I’d like to do_   
>  _Is to save everyday ‘til eternity passes away_   
>  _Just to spend them with you_
> 
>  
> 
> _If I could make days last forever_   
>  _If words could make wishes come true_   
>  _I’d save every day like a treasure and then,_   
>  _Again, I would spend them with you_
> 
>  
> 
>  _But there never seems to be enough time_  
>  _To do the things you want to do once you find them_  
>  _I’ve looked around enough to know_  
>  _That you’re the one I want to go through time with…”_  
>  -Time in a Bottle by Jim Croce

When Malik left the tombs many years ago, one of the first things he wanted to do was learn how to ride a motorcycle.

Rishid, clearly seeing the danger for what it was, had put his foot down, transporting Malik in whatever mode of transportation he desired but not letting him get a motorcycle until he was old enough. The moment Malik could, however, he spent hours on the bike, careful to learn how to keep balance and accelerate and brake with ease.

Malik had to be careful given his back. His scars caused him enough daily pain as it was and a motorcycle was far from a safe instrument. Still, Malik was patient and spent the time to learn and master. Of all potentially dangerous hobbies, his motorcycle was the one he allowed himself. Malik prided himself at having never gotten into an accident or crashed at any point in the many years he'd been riding a motorcycle.

But apparently, today was a day of firsts.

Malik knew skidding out would hurt, but even he didn’t think it would hurt  _ this _ much.

Malik shoved his helmet off, curling into himself as he lay on his side. His back was in a fury of spasms, furious at the harsh treatment, and each tendon made its presence known. Tilting his head back, Malik pressed himself against the brick building next to him, his chest feeling as if it would cave in. Nothing felt like it was broken, but that didn’t stop Malik from gasping for breath, struggling to regain control.

An angry rasp reminded Malik of the reason for the wipeout.

“What the  _ hell _ was that? You nearly got us both killed, jackass!”

Malik blinked his eyes open, and they settled on the teen before him. His hair stuck up even more so than usual, and a large gash cutting into his forearm shone red. Face twisted in anger, Bakura leaned against the opposing wall, struggling to his feet with considerable effort.

Malik narrowed his eyes, a flash of spite coursing through him. “Excuse me? What kind of dumb fuck jumps in front of a moving motorcycle?”

Bakura shook his head, refusing to accept blame for his own stupidity. “I figured you’d be competent enough to know to brake!”

Malik shifted up into a sitting position, regretting the action when a new wave of spasms shot down his spine. He curled into himself, trying to ride out the pain. “Who fucking launches himself in front of a motorbike? How the flying fuck is this my fault?”

“Who the fuck taught you to drive, dipshit?”

Malik gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to argue with Bakura now. He was so relieved to see him, but the bitter words and pain wracking his body made it difficult to express that joy. Instead, Malik took a steady breath, trying to gather himself before he completely lost his temper.

“Bakura, can you shut up for five seconds and just let— “

“How the fuck do you know who I am?” Bakura snapped, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

Malik shook his head, not comprehending. “Why wouldn’t I know? Bakur-“

Bakura pushed off the wall, stumbling onto his feet uneasily. His hand reached back, his body poised as if he were ready for a fight. “I’ve never seen you before in my life! Now tell me how the fuck you know who I am! And think about how you answer before you think about lying to me!”

Malik was ready to snap back, angry at the denials when he paused, trying to remember how he got here in the first place. This was where he first met Bakura. He remembered this. How could Bakura forget that? This is where they became partners in crime, but it didn’t start off so jovially. Like vipers dancing around each other, they had had to get a feel for each other, settling into the natural push and pull of their relationship. Only then could Malik embrace him as an equal. 

Malik remembered this. Why didn’t Bakura?

Malik’s fist tightened as he suddenly remembered the figurine that he had held on to, the one from the diorama in the museum. Malik glanced down. He was still clutching the figurine. There was a crack down the side, but it remained whole still. That wasn’t what caught Malik’s attention, though. He now realized that he gripped another item in his hand still.

The hourglass.

Malik blinked, staring down at one of the many tokens Bakura had used during his final Shadow game. He had nearly forgotten all about the time-keeper in the last few minutes. More curious, the sand continued fall, but slowly. Malik watched, holding his breath as the sand slipped down, a single grain at a time.

Was this Shadow magic? Or was it light magic? Whatever it was, the weight of everything stole away Malik’s breath. Whatever had happened, he knew this wasn’t an illusion. It was too real, too vivid, too painful, too wonderful to be real. Malik thought back to his foolish wish, to let Bakura know how he felt and give him a chance at the redemption he'd previously been denied.

When Malik tore his gaze up to look at Bakura, he realized this was a much more difficult task than he'd initially thought.

Things hadn’t started off so easy. The two quarreled and bickered and struggled to work together the entire time during Battle City. It was only after everything had passed, after Malik had been able to find peace with all that had transpired, that he had he realized the depths of his feelings. It took months and years to reach that level of maturity. They didn’t have the time to make that happen.

But this was Malik’s wish. This was what magic had granted him. He would have to make the most of it while he had the time.

Malik leaned back when he felt that he could handle that much on his back. The fall had made him feel raw and shaken, but he couldn’t act that way in front of Bakura. Even when facing defeat, Bakura had always put a strong face on. That was what Malik liked best about him. No matter the odds, Bakura greeted his fate with riotous laughter.

Any open expressions of feelings would be met with intense suspicion. Malik realized this was their first meeting, and although Malik already knew Bakura, the other had no idea who he was. They had both preened and trotted about back then, arrogance and bravado masking their insecurities. 

Malik knew he would play along, to play the game and let fate take its course. Neither of them could win Battle City. Fate had determined they would lose. But Malik intended to win something much greater—Bakura’s soul.

But until then, Malik needed to intrigue Bakura, pull him along and tempt him with something he never knew he wanted.

Malik smirked, tilting his head back to look at Bakura, who glared at him warily. “I’m Malik Ishtar. I’m hunting down Yugi Muto. I've made it a policy to know who his friends are, Ryou Bakura…or is that who you really are?”

A bold lie to tell. Malik had no idea who Yugi’s companions were for a large portion of Battle City. After he enacted his plan to manipulate Yugi’s friends and integrate himself within their friend group did Malik bother learning their names. Of course, Malik had the knowledge of memory, and the fib seemed to settle Bakura.

In fact, Bakura grinned, eyes narrowing. “So you aren’t as stupid as you look. You know who I am?”

Malik considered his response, knowing that too much knowledge about the trapped Spirit of the Ring would put him on guard again. “I know Shadow magic when I sense it. The question is who…no, what are you?”

Bakura cackled, a curious gleam in his eyes. “It’s like you said—I’m Bakura. Ryou Bakura is the host. I am something far more dangerous. And it just so happens that you have something I want.”

Malik’s mind spun through the events of Battle City. And old familiar weight at his side reminded him of what drew Bakura to him initially. Malik struggled to his feet, trying to hide the grimace of pain. His back still ached, but Malik would muscle through it.

He chuckled, drawing the weapon at his side. “You mean the Millennium Rod? This useless thing? You can have it if you want.”

His words had the effect he was looking for. Bakura was startled by this revelation. His russet eyes narrowed, suspicious of the offer. “You would so easily toss aside such a powerful relic?”

“It’s not just a weapon. There’s much more to the Items than the Pharaoh and his little friends know,” Malik hissed, a burning anger for Bakura’s sake coursing through him before he could filter his words. Like little trinkets tossed about, the Items were nothing more than game pieces to the Pharaoh. Malik knew all too well the very people who died for the sake of this cursed magic.

One look at Bakura’s face told Malik that the Ring Spirit hadn’t forgotten this. A flash of what looked like grief quickly disappeared, a cocky grin replacing the expression in order to hide any weak emotions. “So you did some reading, did you? Surely you must realize I mean to collect all of the Items to take down the Pharaoh myself?”

Malik shrugged. “Perhaps our ambitions aren’t so misaligned. My goal is to kill Yugi after all, which will no doubt be a boon to your plan.” That  _ was _ his goal in the past. Malik realized now that planting himself in the middle of his elaborate plans from Battle City may not have been the best strategy to save Bakura’s soul. Even now, he didn’t want to kill Yugi. Not anymore.

Though he didn’t have to worry about succeeding. History had already declared its victor thousands of years ago.

Fate would dictate his path forward, but Malik would do what he could to change the flow. If they must lose, they would, but Malik could still fight for Bakura’s life. So Malik would play along, continue these plans, knowing that Yugi and his friends would triumph. All he needed to do was follow the steps laid before him, all the while never releasing his hold on Bakura’s soul.

Malik crossed his arms, thumb brushing against the head of the Rod. “Once I achieve my goal, the Millennium Rod will be all but useless to me. But since you seem to have a keen interest in the Items…why don’t we strike a deal?”

Bakura raised a white eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“Work with me to defeat Yugi. Once I achieve my goal, the Rod and the secrets on my back will be yours.”

“Secrets?” Bakura asked, the question slipping through. Malik grinned, knowing that he had Bakura hooked by this secret knowledge.

Malik closed his eyes, trying to shove away the horrible memories from many years ago. “Of course. Surely you must know that all the Items gathered would not be enough to achieve your goals?”

Bakura snapped his gaze away, refusing to be shamed for his ignorance. “And if I refuse your offer?”

Malik cackled. “Then I’ll kill you. How about I give you five minutes to decide? I’m feeling rather generous today.”

Malik had made a brash declaration like that when they'd first met all those years ago. Back then, he'd planned on using Bakura if he refused to aid him. So jaded and suspicious, Malik was ready to turn him into another mindless puppet for his goals. But Malik knew better now. He knew who Bakura was and what he was willing to stake for his goals. So similar were they that Malik always knew how Bakura would respond without fail.

Bakura smirked, a greedy smile on his face that said he accepted the challenge. This time, Malik wouldn’t lose.

* * *

Malik and Bakura had ridden over to the pier the first time they met. They'd formulated their plan and prepared to greet Jounouchi and Anzu upon leaving the aquarium. After everything that had come to pass, Malik had never been able to go back to that pier. It had become a place of too many memories. In general, he avoided these spots where the wishful thoughts haunted him.  


So Malik felt this anxiety as they stood on the docks. They had spoken of their plan to lure Yugi’s friends into trusting him. Befriending Yugi’s best friends, Malik would gain their trust. Everything would fall into place as before. Bakura had no objections with this plan, since he willingly threw himself into every plan with reckless abandon.

But Malik was not the same cruel youth he had been those many years ago.

Things were different five years later. The rage and spite that had fueled him in those days had tempered with age. Realizing that his anger had been misplaced, Malik had spent years reconciling his past, his trauma, his health. And even though mentally Malik knew this, he'd now returned to a body that bristled with unresolved fury.

Also, the body of a sixteen-year old was far more rampant with testosterone than Malik remembered. And it certainly didn’t help that Bakura happened to wear jeans that just accentuated his ass so perfectly.

Why had Malik never noticed stuff like that before? Probably because he was a cesspool of teenage angst.

Bakura looked out into the water, Malik standing by his side. Their plan would be much the same as before, though Malik struggled to remember all the details of how it had all gone down. The duel between Jounouchi and Yugi came to his mind, and he remembered how difficult and frustrating the duel had been at the time.

The lead-up to the duel was a bit foggier in Malik’s mind. So much had happened in such a short period of time. From deceiving Yugi and his friends to confronting his childhood trauma and reaching out to his sister—a lot of shit had gone down in Battle City. It was a miracle that Malik had survived the ordeal.

Then again, survival was second nature to Malik by this point. After everything he had been through, Malik found every day to be a fight to keep going.

Malik stole a glance at his partner-in-crime, who gazed out into the sea. The breeze was strong here, the wind gusting about them. Bakura glared at the ocean, arms crossed as if in another duel with the Pharaoh. Malik watched the white hair billow about, a small smile creeping onto his face.

“Quite the view, isn’t it?”

Bakura raised an eyebrow, his expression unchanging as his eyes flicked once over Malik without responding. Malik’s ears burned, but he snapped his gaze back towards the ocean. That was a stupid attempt at conversation, even for him.

How the hell was Malik supposed to find common ground with Bakura?

The things he’d dreamed about seemed so easy when Malik laid on his bed, brushing his fingers against the silk sheets. He had imagined a time when he could pour out his feelings, unbridled and completely honest, watching pale cheeks turn red at his confession. Only now did Malik realize how stupid that would be. Romanticizing the past made him forget what worked well for them.

But back in the moment, Malik realized how difficult it had been trying to work with Bakura. Neither had been willing to give an inch, justified in their cause and always wary of the other. Their alliance, though seemingly natural, was far from it in practice. So how could Malik bridge the gap?

He thought about how Yugi managed to make friends with him after all they had been through. Talking seemed like something they would do.

… Which meant Malik should absolutely  _ not _ do that.

But now that left the problem of what to actually do, if talking wasn't going to help.

Malik sighed, dropping his head down. The breeze whipped his hair around his face, the bright afternoon sun causing his earrings to glisten and sparkle against his golden hair. Malik raised a hand to brush his hair behind his ear, pausing when he noticed a set of eyes on him. Bakura stood watching him, the tension gone from his brow, his dark brown eyes watching the crown of gold in the light.

Before Malik could filter his thoughts, he smirked and said, “Like what you see?”

Bakura blinked, growling under his breath before turning away. To his credit, no blush slipped onto his pale features. Malik chuckled, amused at Bakura’s annoyance, but he said nothing further. Conversations were too difficult for them, but teasing and insulting Bakura probably wouldn’t help either. The situation was becoming more hopeless by the second.

“… I used to be a thief, you know.”

Malik froze, wondering if he'd actually heard Bakura speak. He turned back, jaw slack, watching Bakura. The Ring Spirit said nothing else for a moment, eyes focused on the water ahead, though there was a hazy look to them, along with a small smirk on his lips. “They called me the Thief King. I stole then and I steal now. I take what’s most valuable.”

Malik felt the weight of the Millennium Rod at his side. “Hence the Millennium Items, I presume?”

Bakura’s smirk widened. “Those will be my crown jewels. But I don’t mind stealing whatever I want.”

Malik laughed, resting a hand on his hip. He gave Bakura a cocky grin. “Thinking of adding me to the collection?”

Bakura finally turned towards Malik, a gleam in his eyes. “Careful there, Ishtar, or I might just have to steal you for myself.”

Bakura meant those words as a threat. But Malik had another idea in mind. He took a step forward, closer to Bakura. “What if I want you to steal me away?”

Bakura’s brows furrowed. His eyes darted about Malik’s face, searching for whatever ulterior motives he had. Malik maintained eye contact, unflinching, knowing that glancing away now would be seen as weakness. He knew Bakura’s game. Malik had thought himself to be the master of the game when they'd first met.

But the truth was, they were equal players. They always had been.

Bakura jerked his head away, tension returning to his shoulders. Malik sighed, disappointed that the moment had passed. He couldn’t expect them to find that connection so instantaneously. Still, Malik felt a flicker of triumph at the look in Bakura’s eyes. He had never seen it before, and perhaps those subtle moments of weakness would crack through the defenses around his heart.

But Malik was getting ahead of himself. He rested his hands at his waist, looking back towards the docks. “Jounouchi will be finishing his duel soon. We should come up with some way for me to gain their trust.”

Bakura turned back, more comfortable now that their conversation had returned to their plans. A knowing smile slipped onto his face. “That’s an easy problem to solve. They’re trusting fools and I happen to have a host who they trust.”

Malik nodded. “So shall I control Ry—your host, or can you pretend—“

Malik didn’t even get the opportunity to try to avoiding their old plan and come up with a new one. Without another word, Bakura pulled a knife from his pocket, a low chuckle in his throat before he licked the blade of the knife.

“Wait!”

Malik watched in stunned horror as Bakura plunged the knife into his arm, laughing wildly. Malik had barely paid attention the first time, more or less rolling with Bakura’s idea of a plan at the time because it benefited him. This time, however, Malik raced to Bakura’s side, panicked at the sight of blood, his heart quickening as other memories of knives and blood danced across his vision.

The fact that Malik ended up working with this masochistic moron to try to end the world was astonishing. 

“Why the fuck would you do that? What the hell does this accomplish?” Malik screamed, snatching the knife out of Bakura’s hand and tossing it away into the water. He wrapped his arms around Bakura, who swayed unevenly.

Surprisingly, or actually not surprisingly, Bakura laughed, his face flushed from the sudden shock to his system. “You pretend to help out an injured duelist and they’ll let you into their group. Simple enough for you to follow.”

Malik shook his head. Why the hell did he go along with this plan the first time? “Did you have to fucking stab yourself? For the sake of the gods, you could have faked a limp and I could have helped you! There are a million better ways to do this!”

“Hey, fuck you! I’m bleeding out as it is and you’re going to bitch me out?” Bakura snarled, though he struggled to sit up. Of course his pride mattered more than his own damn life.

Malik leaned him back, yanking at the blue button-down shirt Bakura wore to try to make a tourniquet. “Yes, I’m going to bitch you out because this plan is so fucking stupid!”

Bakura grimaced, sweat dripping down his face into his eyes. “Yeah, well, it’s what we’re going with now so don’t fuck this up.”

Malik wrapped the shirt around the wound, which still bled freely. He struggled not to panic, but the memories of the past messed with the memory he was living in now. The sight of Bakura bleeding washed into the delighted face of his father, candles flickering about him. The waft of blood turned to the smell of burning flesh.

Malik suddenly couldn’t stop his racing breath. He shook his head, not comprehending how he had handled this as a troubled teen, but couldn’t anymore. “Why would you hurt yourself? You damn idiot! Why would you—“ He cut himself off, palms pressing into the cement.

Bakura, despite being in the process of falling unconscious, gave a weak chuckle. “Fuck Ishtar, keep this up and I’ll start thinking you actually care.”

Malik bit his lip, but didn’t respond, letting Bakura mock him before falling unconscious. It was only after he heard Bakura’s slow, measured breaths that Malik focused on matching his pace. They were fools, the both of them. Malik didn’t want this. He wanted Bakura to have better, but this was the same man willing to stab himself to win. So convinced that this plan would work, Bakura didn’t give a second thought to plunging a knife into himself. Malik knew that he had to fall into step for now, knowing he needed to change their course later on so that they would succeed.

However, a hard lump caught in Malik’s throat. In that moment, his previous failings hung close and Malik grew terrified at the prospect of failing once more.

* * *

Malik had long felt distant from the atrocities of Battle City. He had to in order to get by. Reliving each horrific act, acts he had committed with unflinching determination, cracked at Malik’s resolve. Yugi would succeed, despite the horrors he made him and his friends suffer.  


But Malik knew the worst was yet to come.

The first moment following the pier that shook him was Ryou regaining consciousness. He hadn’t cared about Yugi or any of his friends. Hindsight provided him with the knowledge of who Ryou was and the sort of compassionate person he was. That only drove the stake deeper into his heart when Ryou woke up, disoriented and terrified.

Malik couldn’t explain what they had done. He couldn’t tell him about how Bakura used him like a rag doll to accomplish goals. But then again, Ryou probably realized the dangers of the Spirit in the Ring. After all, Bakura had made no secret of his apathy towards everyone involved.

Years later, Ryou would tell Malik that he still believed in the good of the Ring Spirit. If someone like Ryou, who hosted the dark being for years, could believe in a change of heart for the Ring Spirit, then Malik would make sure that Bakura would be given that opportunity. So Malik said nothing but sweet reassurances and platitudes, relieved when Anzu and Jounouchi could get their friend help.

Everything else came to pass without any surprises. Fate seemed determined to straighten its course as it always did. Malik gathered his locator cards with ease through the Ghouls. Still, Malik barely paid any mind to what he was doing, his thoughts often flicking back to Bakura. His memory of events before the Battle City finals was hazy, but Malik could remember certain details with clarity.

Night finally fell and Malik took the opportunity reach out, far more tentative than the first time he sought out Bakura’s consciousness. He knew where to find him, having already planted himself into Ryou’s subconscious. He followed the stream of consciousness, tugging until he found himself in an empty clearing.

Malik didn’t need to look up to know Bakura was glaring at him.

“Didn’t expect to see you barging in here. Care to explain why you’ve forced yourself upon me?”

So many ways to respond to that and Malik (incredibly) chose to avoid the low hanging fruit. Despite how  _ damn easy _ Bakura was making it for him.

“How’s the hospital? Did you get that arm checked out?”

Bakura rolled his eyes, a dry look on his face. “The hospital’s fine. I have no idea why it’s any of your business, but I’m starting to get the sense of what sort of bullshit you’ll be spewing.”

Malik snorted. This was starting to sound like the Bakura he knew and (ironically) fell in love with. Granted, it took him a few years to warm up to his jaded bravado.

But Bakura didn’t give Malik a chance for his devilish charms to work their business. “So, did you succeed in defeating Yugi Mutou?”

Malik almost laughed at the question. Before, it infuriated him how he couldn’t seem to touch the legendary King of Games. Hindsight was definitely 20/20. “Things didn’t pan out as expected. It seems I’ll have to place my bets on the Battle City finals.”

Bakura cackled, mocking Malik’s failure. “Figures you couldn’t even handle that much. In any case, I’ll be taking that Rod from you.”

“Hang on, I can’t just give you the Rod now. I have my ambitions to consider.”

“That was the agreement! I aided you and gave you your chance to kill Yugi Muto and you failed. I fulfilled my end of the bargain, now it’s time to pay up!” Bakura argued back, glowering under his white bangs.

“The agreement was to help me defeat Yugi, yeah? Well I haven’t done that, so no Rod for you!” Malik argued back, crossing his arms to end the conversation in an almost petulant manner.

“You will too give me that damn Rod! I stabbed myself in the arm for you!” Bakura snapped, gesturing to the bandages on his arm.

“You fucking stabbed yourself, dipshit! I didn’t make you do anything!” Malik hissed, wanting no blame in Bakura’s apparent death wish.

Bakura snorted, crossing his arm, though wincing when his fingers brushed his bicep near the cut. “You needed a means to ingratiate yourself to Yugi’s companions and I gave you that means! I don’t just stab myself for anyone!”

Malik, for some reason, doubted that statement. He let out an exasperated sigh. “Please shut up before I’m tempted to stab you myself.”

“How the fuck are you going to stab me in this realm? That Rod isn’t going to do you any good here.” Bakura smirked, amusement gleaming in his dark eyes at Malik’s frustration.

Malik hated being made a fool of for Bakura’s amusement. Perhaps that’s why Malik decided to give in and take advantage of all the possibilities such a phallic item provided them. He raised a golden eyebrow as he tried to turn the tables. “There are more ways to stab a man than to just kill him, you know.”

The disturbed look Bakura’s face both amused and frustrated Malik. Bakura’s features seemed to become paler, his brow furrowing. A tension returned to his shoulders, the Spirit hunching in on himself, though Malik noticed how his eyes darkened at the remark. Bakura opened his lips, hesitant before speaking. “Why stab someone if you don’t want them dead?”

Malik pursed his lips. The temptation to just say what he really wanted crossed his mind, but Malik knew he had to keep playing the game. Bakura was still too guarded and suspicious to even consider the possibility of someone caring about him, let alone loving him. Still, Malik needed to remind him of something that still existed in him that craved such affection.

Explaining his meaning would make Bakura think he was mocking him. It would have been easier if Bakura had dropped the conversation and let the words simmer. Malik didn’t know how to explain his meaning while making his intentions clear and not scaring Bakura off.

Things never could be simple.

Malik glanced away, his lilac eyes settling on the Rod for a moment before tearing away. “You damn fool. You know exactly what I mean.”

Bakura’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing. In a way, it gave Malik an out from explaining. Bakura was proud and wouldn’t admit to his ignorance, settling on just acting annoyed by Malik’s banter. For now, that would have to be enough.

“Enough chit chat. What do I have to do to get the Rod from you now, you miserly bastard?” Bakura snapped, words venomous, though Malik knew arrogance was the source of the vitriol.

Malik sighed, fingers curling tighter around the Rod. “Isn’t it obvious? All roads lead to the Battle City finals. That’s where I’ll get my revenge and you can have the Millennium Rod.”

Bakura watched him for a long moment before giving a dramatic eye roll. “I see. Well it seems if you want a job done right, you’ll have to do it yourself. So I suppose I’ll be taking Yugi down in your stead since you can’t seem to do it right.”

Malik frowned. His previous reasons for pushing Bakura into entering the Battle City finals were purely selfish. He knew he needed the help and he'd manipulated Bakura for his own benefit. At present, Malik kept a better head about him. As much as he wanted to win Bakura’s affections, he knew damn well that he should not be leaving a hospital in his condition.

“Bakura, don’t be stupid. You’re hooked up to an IV, thanks to your stupid stunt earlier. Card games are the last thing you need to be worried ab-“

A harsh cackle interrupted Malik, throwing him off-guard. Bakura grinned like the Cheshire cat, a pleased look about him. “I’ve suffered worse. That’s why you called me here, isn’t it? To recruit my help?”

Malik shook his head, a scowl slipping onto his face. “I was just giving you an update as to why I can’t give you the Rod! Don’t be so reckless—“

Malik’s words were already lost on the Ring Spirit. Bakura started to walk away, shadows playing across his face. “I don’t have any time to waste. I’ll see you at the Battle City finals—don’t keep me waiting, Ishtar.”

And just like that, the Spirit of the Ring disappeared, like a wisp evading sight. Malik knew if he didn’t keep a better eye on him, he would lose Bakura a second time and his heart couldn’t handle the heartache again.

* * *

Things became thornier when Malik reached the Battle City finals.  


Malik never paid attention to the distance Bakura kept from other people. In his mind, the only thing that mattered was that they accomplished their goal. Despite his injury and hospital visit, Bakura, acting as Ryou, made his way to the Battle City finals. Yugi and his friends were panicked, and rightfully so. Malik didn’t care at the time because he figured the Spirit was desperate enough to make their plans work.

This time, however, Malik could see the uneasy sway in his step, the tremble in his hands, the bead of sweat that he quickly brushed away before any of Ryou’s friends could ask. So when they all arrived at the docked blimp in anticipation of the semi-finals, Malik didn’t waste time preparing his deck. What was the point when he already knew the outcome?

All the duels so far had gone exactly as planned. Any attempts to change the fate and the alignment of the cards would be pointless.

Instead, Malik hunted down Bakura, who had quickly hidden himself in his cabin. He stood outside the door, holding his breath. Malik reached into his pocket, where the hourglass still kept time, sand crawling down and pooling. It was hard to tell, but it seemed over half the time had already passed. It had happened so quickly. The struggle of Battle City had always felt much longer in Malik’s mind than the few scant days that had passed.

Malik knew his time was short. He needed to make the most of this.

A quick knock informed Bakura of his guest, and Malik let himself in as his Namu façade quickly fell away. He narrowed his eyes when he saw Bakura smirking from his spot in the chair.

“Ready for the duels?”

Malik frowned, walking to the table next to Bakura. “I should ask you that question. You look as if you’re about to pass out any second.”

Bakura snickered, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “Please. Nothing could stop me from getting what I want. I told you—I’m a thief.”

Malik rolled his eyes. “Yes, the Thief King, as I recall. That doesn’t mean you're immune to pain.”

“What, this? I can barely feel it anymore.”

Malik gritted his teeth, slamming a fist down on the table. “Damn it, stop pretending and just admit it! You’re about to pass out from the pain! You need to see a doctor.”

Bakura shook his head, all amusement gone as he glared up at Malik. “Hell no. I’m here to win this tournament and put an end to that Pharaoh. Nobody, not even you, is going to stop me from getting what I want.”

“But your wound is still bleeding! You’ve torn the stitches, yeah? That’ll scar if you don’t get that take care of,” Malik hissed, reaching a hand out to check the bandages.

Like a wounded animal, Bakura leapt from his seat, yanking his arm away. His eyes darted about Malik’s form, a scowl on his face, though Malik didn’t miss the flinch in his body. An involuntary reaction. One that stung more than Malik wanted to admit.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Bakura snarled, eyes narrowing.

Malik rolled his eyes, refusing to feel embarrassed for doing something decent for once in his life. “I’m trying to check your injury. There should be a doctor on flight that can take a look—”

“I don’t want anyone touching my host!”

“You need to get it treated! You just stabbed yourself hours ago and you can’t just fling yourself into a duel! You’ll pass out!” Malik threw his arms up in frustration. These fights were romantic in hindsight but aggravating as hell at present.

Bakura snorted, a small smirk on his face, though the shadows under his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. “I’m fine. I’ve suffered worse.”

That pissed off Malik more than it should have. “Just because you have suffered worse doesn’t mean you should actively seek out pain!”

“Ishtar—drop it. This has nothing to do with you!” His words had a sharp edge to them, biting in nature.

“I know that! But I want to be a part of it! Stop shutting me out! I know more than you think I do!”

Bakura cackled, shaking his head in mockery at Malik's words and turning away. Malik refused to end their argument here. Without thinking, he stormed forward, a hand grabbing Bakura by the shoulder and shoving him against the wall, lavender eyes lit with anger.

That was a mistake. Bakura’s eyes flashed before he gripped Malik. Malik didn’t anticipate him grabbing him back. In a sudden sharp twist, Bakura pulled Malik’s arm behind his back, shoving his face into the wall in a sudden display of speed.

The effect was instantaneous, Malik squeezing his eyes shut as the muscles in his shoulder spasmed down, painful jolts coursing through his spine. His breath was stolen away and he suddenly couldn't voice how sharply this hurt. What would have only disarmed the average person was far more excruciating for Malik, with cauterized scars lain across his back.

Bakura grunted, freezing for a moment, the hand against his back growing slack. Malik froze when he felt his fingers press against the fabric, feeling the scars underneath. Panicked, Malik twisted away, and Bakura’s hands loosened immediately, letting him go.

For years, Malik had wondered what it would be like to let someone touch his scars. Even years after it had all come to pass, no one had ever so much as brushed their fingers against the layered wound. He had thought about entrusting the secret to Bakura one day, to let him share this pain. To let Bakura know that he knew what pain was and that they were both weary travelers on the same path.

This was a far cry from those simple fantasies. He didn’t want Bakura to learn and feel his scars in this manner. Not like this.

Malik forced his gaze down, his arms wrapping around his waist. Bakura’s eyes focused on him, lacking their usual biting distrust. Instead, his dark brown eyes grew wide, confused and almost scared—or as scared as Bakura would ever show.

Malik inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and standing up straight. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, something he'd never allowed himself all those years ago when he'd finally tried to reconcile all the painful memories that plagued him. Something that took years to reach. Malik only had a few days to share with Bakura.

“I’m no stranger to pain. I can tell you’re the same. We both fight until we get what we want, despite the baggage. I just thought—“ Malik shook his head, ears burning with shame. His arms dropped to his side, his shoulders hanging low as he moved to pass Bakura. “It doesn’t matter. You'd better get ready for your duel.”

Bakura said nothing as Malik walked past, but Malik could already feel the Ring Spirit slipping through his fingers and back into the darkness.

* * *

Bakura managed to survive his duel with the Pharaoh, though Malik no longer held much hope for the rest of the tournament.  


It seemed the timestream was set on correcting itself, refusing Malik even the chance to make any changes of real value. From every card drawn to every cry of encouragement to the mutterings of an annoyed CEO, Malik experienced such intense déjà vu that he wondered if wishing for change meant anything.

Still, he couldn’t help but be curious when Bakura stepped in to protect Ryou.

Before Malik had assumed he did so because he needed Ryou’s body. After all, Bakura made it clear time and time again that he needed this vessel for his revenge and nothing more. It certainly seemed their relationship resembled that of a parasite and host more than anything else.

Even still, Malik knew that changes he controlled could happen. So he decided not to order Rishid to interfere with their duel. In a way, Malik was curious about what would happen, watching Bakura’s mounting frustration at the realization of his defeat.

“So it seems you can’t beat Yugi. In the end, no one can get the upper hand on him.”

Bakura’s body remained frozen, though Malik felt the anger radiating off his soul, hovering near to him. “Shut up, Ishtar.”

Malik sighed, curious as to what Bakura would do now. “You should probably surrender. There’s no way to win this now nor survive an attack from Slifer.”

Bakura narrowed his eyes, bristling at the suggestion. “I  _ never _ surrender.”

Malik watched him for a moment, staring at the fists that shook at his side. He gave the Spirit a moment to gather himself. “I see. Well, I certainly hope your host body can withstand an attack. You’ve lost too much blood as it is.” Despite his blasé words, Malik kept his eyes on the trembling form. Despite all the bravado and mocking words, Bakura still struggled to hide the extent of his injuries.

Bakura straightened up, his expression growing slack, a gleam in his eyes. “Of course! Yadonushi!”

Malik’s heart raced in his chest, and he swore under his breath. The very thing he was trying to avoid and he gave the damn idea to Bakura.

In a flash, the deed was done. No longer did Bakura stand proud and defiant against the gods but instead his host, Ryou, collapsed to his knees, trembling and sweating. Malik’s earlier suspicions were proven true, that Bakura had only been maintaining a strong front. In truth, his body couldn’t handle the stress of the battle.

But more than that, Ryou couldn’t handle it, curling in on himself, grasping at his wound. Malik felt a flash of disgust, annoyed at Bakura but more at himself for willingly suggesting this tactic before. He knew he'd used and hurt people before. He only needed to think about Yugi and Jounouchi’s duel he manipulated.

But it still hurt to see the events play out as before.

Yugi and his companions were horrified by the disgusting ploy (and rightfully so), the Pharaoh near to darting across the field to help Ryou before pausing at the thought of surrendering the match. Even now, Malik could see the conflict across his face—to win or help a friend. The fact that it was so difficult to decide reminded Malik of his old anger at an undead Pharaoh he would never know.

The time ticked down, both in the hourglass and the duel. A couple more minutes and Bakura would win his duel. On some level, Malik knew wondering how events would change was pointless. The Pharaoh would win. All duels, despite some hitches, all ended the same way. So a question remained.

Would the Pharaoh attack or would Bakura surrender?

Malik could feel the conflict in his chest threatening to break free. Even now, with the Ring Spirit at his side, Malik had his doubts. So little had seemed to change and Malik didn’t have enough time. How could he expect that he could change his future when the odds were always stacked against him? Against them?

“He…he won’t attack,” Bakura murmured, realizing that he'd finally found his trump card against the Pharaoh.

Malik pressed his lips together, tearing his gaze away. “No, he won’t. You finally get to win. Congrats.” Malik spat out the words, not caring if he sounded spiteful for not gaining his vengeance, or for the shameful tactic.

In the end, the only thing that would change would be the Pharaoh’s hardening heart, not breaking down the barriers to Bakura’s.

The silence hung heavy, the two spirits waiting to see who would blink. Malik let his arms drop to his side, regret welling in him. Reliving these memories only served to hurt him further. Magic could not give him what he wanted.

“…I’m sorry, Malik.”

Malik snapped his head up, the foreign words jarring his ears. He looked at Bakura, who avoided his gaze by watching Ryou. It was only a moment, but a flicker danced across his face. Malik thought it was annoyance and frustration, but something else hung in his eyes as well. “What?”

Bakura gritted his teeth, eyes darting back to Malik, dark as the night, so much so that Malik feared he would be lost in them. “I have ways I like to win and those I don’t. I’m afraid our arrangement ends here.”

Malik stared, slack-jawed and at a loss for words. Bakura…putting down his pride? Before he could question it, Bakura gave him a smirk, his anger breaking for a moment as he whispered back to Malik.

“Still want your Rod though.”

Malik didn’t know how to respond—sarcastic, sincere, scoffing—but he never got the chance. In a flash, Bakura was gone and the fire of the gods consumed him, leaving Malik stunned at what had transpired.

* * *

Malik became distracted by his attempts to reach Bakura. Malik was so focused on Bakura's well-being and connecting with the Ring Spirit that his thoughts trailed away. Events played out the same as before with almost no prompting from Malik. That didn’t mean Malik had no role to play in these events, even if he forgot him.  


And it was only after Rishid fell unconscious that Malik finally remembered the darkness that doomed them all.

A presence that haunted him many years ago, one that both protected and harmed him, finally woke. Suddenly, Malik was wrenched from his own body, panicking when he realized that his chances of success were growing fleeting. What little progress he could claim was now gone and Malik couldn’t even give himself a moment to take back that chance for himself.

The last thing he wanted to do was put Bakura in more danger. He couldn’t bear the thought of it. So instead, he meant to tell Bakura what had happened and explain why he wouldn’t be able to keep to their arrangement. That he couldn’t demand that Bakura risk everything for his sake.

But Malik never got the chance to express this. Instead, Bakura rose to meet the challenge, facing the darkness in Malik. Malik should have figured he couldn’t escape this duel, as much as he wanted to.

So he stood by Bakura’s side, watching each card which never changed, and each turn play out as expected. His vision grew distant, an overwhelming sense of defeat crushing him. They couldn’t win. They would never win. Malik looked down, pulling out the hourglass he kept hidden that marked the time until it would all end. Only a few grains remained.

Malik squeezed his eyes shut, clenching the glass figure. He couldn’t let this end the same way. Not like this. He hadn’t saved Bakura. He hadn’t told him. Bakura didn’t know that…

… That he loved him.

The sharp call of his name told Malik that Bakura wanted his attention, his partner annoyed by his distance. Malik took a deep breath, trying to gather himself and not let his despair be so evident. He opened his eyes, his expression dour as he met Bakura’s sharp gaze.

“I don’t put my neck out for just anyone so the least you could do is at least feign interest in a duel for your own damn body!” Bakura snapped. If the situation wasn’t so grave, Malik would have laughed. Bakura made it sound like it was Malik’s fault that he got into the duel. Then again, Bakura always seemed to insist that every bit of trouble he faced was for Malik’s sake.

Malik was going to miss that.

“I care,” Malik said, though his voice was weak and soft. He coughed, clearing his throat, but he couldn’t meet Bakura’s gaze. “Just fucking duel and win this thing.”

“Shit, don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Bakura muttered, his eyes darting back to Malik before focusing back on the duel. Malik remained silent, eyes straying away from the field and focusing on Bakura.

The spell that had brought him back here would soon wear off and Malik would be left with only the memories once again. He already knew how this duel would end, so what was the point? Instead, Malik wanted to spend these last moments memorizing and engraving the image of Bakura into his mind, so that he would never fade from his memories.

“Malik!”

Malik blinked, Bakura’s voice catching him off guard again. “What now?” 

  


Malik tried to sound annoyed, but exhaustion crept into his voice. His eyes were trained on the floor of the duel arena. He couldn’t look up to see face his own shadow. The grains slipped away, even minute vanishing and leaving Malik with the reminder of no future to follow.

“Fuck, you are really zoning out today.” Malik jerked back when a pale arm waved in front of his non-corporeal form, as if Bakura was trying to check his vision.

“Bakura, the fuck?”

“I asked you the same question twice now and you didn’t hear me,” Bakura explained, now testing to see if the parts of him consumed by shadows could pass through Malik. There was something almost curious in the gesture that made Malik have to bite his lip. He had wanted to see more of this side of Bakura but it seemed their time was running short.

“And what question would that be?” Malik asked, humoring Bakura.

“Why have you already given up?”

Malik’s breath caught in his throat as he gave a slight shake of his head. He licked his lips, unable to maintain eye contact. Perhaps he wasn’t as good at lying as he used to be. Or at least, not around Bakura. “I haven’t.”

Bakura snorted. “Bullshit. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve already accepted defeat.”

Malik gave a breathy laugh, unable to stop the tremors in his body. Why did Bakura have to mention something now? Why did he have to start paying attention when it was all about to end? Malik looked up at the wild white hair framing his pale face. His dark eyes shimmered, watching his every move.

What did he have to lose?

“…Bakura, we can’t win this. I know that fate has dealt me a shit hand and I can’t escape it. I knew from the moment the duel started that we would lose,” Malik whispered, shaking hard at admitting the truth. He never could say this before. He could never let himself admit weakness. Years of reconciling all that had transpired finally gave him the peace of mind to accept the entirety of it all.

But now, before someone he loved, another crack splintered in Malik’s core, a sharp awareness that they could never win and never would. Bakura had always believed that every battle could be won, but Malik had lost that faith over the years. The gods had chosen their victors and he and Bakura were the losers. The lot had been cast and their fate had been sealed before they were even born.

Malik’s head dropped, waiting to hear some scolding remark for his lack of faith—or perhaps his lack of resolve, since Bakura didn’t seem like a faith person.

“I know.”

Malik jerked his head up, eyes wide as he settled on the ancient Ring Spirit. Those were the last words Malik had expected from Bakura’s mouth. “What?”

Bakura shrugged. “I knew we had a fool’s chance at best. The gods hated me three thousand years ago and they hate me now. The Pharaoh is fated to win, the gods’ favorite, after all. What chance does a thief have at stealing it away?”

Bakura turned back, a sharp gleam to his eyes. “So what? If fate plans on fucking me over ninety-nine percent of the time, then I've still got a one-percent chance of fucking it over instead. And I plan on fighting and clawing my way forward until I get what I want. Because nothing else matters outside of that.”

His signature smirk slid back onto his face, his pale features growing more pallid as the duel took its toll. “But you already get that, don’t you? We’re two sides of the same coin, after all.”

Malik froze, trying to understand what Bakura was saying. The idea that Bakura knew that destiny would keep fucking him over and yet he still kept fighting for the chance to finally have the final word…wasn't that what it was all about? Malik knew his chances of taking what he wanted most in the world were slim. He had known than when the hourglass took him back to this moment, giving him one last chance to change an unchangeable future.

It was a fool’s wish, one that fate mocked him for having. That didn’t make it any less worth fighting for.

Malik chuckled, shaking his head, still struggling with his disbelief. “Is that why you volunteered to fight against my own darkness, despite knowing there’s a god card in that deck?”

Bakura shrugged, though his grin widened. “I’m just here for the Rod, remember?”

Malik laughed, the sound growing in volume. Bakura joined him, cackling at their own secret joke. They were both fucked and they knew it. That didn’t mean they would cower from their fate. Even as the Winged Dragon of Ra rose before them, fear couldn’t touch Malik anymore. Not when he knew they would keep fighting.

Malik would keep fighting his fate, despite the heartache and failure. He would fight for Bakura and never give up.

Their laughter was lost in the roar of the ancient god. The creature reared back, flames racing towards them. Malik turned back to his partner one last time, reaching a hand out despite knowing they couldn’t touch. Even still, Bakura turned back, eyes watching Malik’s hand brush against his arm.

“Bakura…” Malik’s eyes locked on Bakura, unable to say what he wanted to most.

Bakura’s eyes widened, opening his mouth as if to speak, but the brightness drew closer. Both of them turned, facing the god’s flames as they roared around them. Malik raised his arms, trying to brace himself for the heat. He stole a glance at Bakura, who roared in pain and agony as the flames consumed them.

Malik’s regret turned to horror as the flames danced across his vision. In a flash, the purple shadows around them turned to smog. The heat of the flames were matched only by the heat of the desert wind, sand tossing about them. Bakura flickered in and out of Malik’s vision until long white hair turned short and silver. Pale skin deepened into a dark, copper tone. The scar on his arm was gone, but a new scar trailed down his right cheek.

A moment of desperation had Malik rushing towards the man, confused as to where the Ring Spirit had disappeared to. The red of his cloak bled over the figure, the fires and sand whipping around him. As the man turned to face Malik, he dissolved into sand, escaping his vision.

Malik screamed, his extended hand dissolving into sand as well. Before he could stop it, his vision spun out of control as the flames and sand overtook him, leaving Malik in darkness.


	3. Sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Sometimes you picture me –_   
>  _Walking too far ahead_   
>  _You’re calling to me, I can’t hear_   
>  _What you’ve said –_   
>  _Then you say – go slow –_   
>  _I fall behind –_   
>  _The second hand unwinds_
> 
> _If you’re lost you can look – and you will find me_  
>  _Time after time_  
>  _If you fall, I will catch you – I’ll be waiting_  
>  _Time after time”_  
>  -Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper

Malik couldn’t tell where his consciousness began and ended. His mind swam in darkness, always darkness. Even now, as his eyelids fluttered open, darkness greeted him as it always had. He may have left the tomb years ago, but the shadows would never leave him.

Malik hung in this balance for a while before his eyes finally focused on the swirling purple around him. He knew this place, the place where his heart dwelled during those many years before. Rising to his knees, Malik reached a hand forward, meaning to steady himself to stand, only to hit glass.

Malik’s brows furrowed, glancing about when he saw the glass surrounding him. Looking down, he saw sand piled around him, cool and almost wet in texture without any sunlight to warm it.

The Shadow Realm.

Malik remembered being trapped here before when he lost control to his alter. Time ticking down until the darkness consumed him, Malik pressed feebly against the walls keeping him in the hourglass. He should have figured that using the hourglass would have its own repercussions. Shadow magic always stole more than it was worth.

Malik looked up, staring into the shadows as the mist moved about him. His body felt distant as the magic that had brought him to the past slipped away. Where his consciousness would return was still not yet determined. In truth, it didn’t matter now, since the shadows swarmed around the glass fixture, his cage until he drowned in time.

Malik closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the glass. The walls encasing him shook, and Malik flinched as a voice reached out to him.

_ “Power…” _

Malik’s eyes fluttered open, glancing down at the sand pooling in his lap. He didn’t understand what the voice told him, the low growl reverberating through his bones. After all, what power did he have here?

_ “What power…do you seek?” _

Malik furrowed his brow, puzzling at the question. What power? There wasn’t a power in this world that could give him what he wanted. Isn’t that what this was all about? Isn’t this why he failed in his attempt at rescuing Bakura? Even after everything, power couldn’t give him what he wanted.

But…Malik had known that before. He'd learned that years ago in the tomb with his father. He thought by fighting back that he would be free, but instead, he became a slave to his own desire. He'd wanted to destroy everything that had ruined his life. He'd wanted to have power over others. The Millennium Rod had granted him that power, to control and manipulate everything and everyone to his own will.

But power didn’t give him the revenge he desired most dearly. Power would not give him back the one he loved.

Malik drove his fingers into the sand, struggling to worm them down until he could reach into his pocket. He pulled out both the hourglass and the figurine of the thief, one in each of his hands. The only two tokens he had left on him, reminding him of what he'd fought for. Even if he couldn’t have that, he would hold onto to these.

Turning back time hadn't saved Bakura. Malik sighed, the hand holding the hourglass dropping to his side. He held the figurine close to his chest.

“I just want my thief back,” Malik murmured, speaking softly to himself. That was the only power he cared about in this world.

Malik looked up, noticing something watching him in the distance. There was a gleam of red, and Malik froze when he recognized the glow. He only needed to think back to the final shadow game, where Necrophades’s model sat at the end, his eyes a bloody red.

Malik didn’t remember seeing him here the last time he was trapped in the shadows. But then again, Malik had spent the last few days trying to change his fate. Perhaps he had only made his fate worse.

Before Malik could figure out what would happen to him, the glass shattered in Malik’s hand. He jerked his hand back, now bloodied by the broken glass. The hourglass crumbled into pieces, the glass disappearing into the falling sand.

He heard the glass around him crack as well, Malik sliding back as the walls surrounding him suddenly shattered. He fell back into the sand, seeking safe ground, but instead falling deeper into the sand. Panicked, Malik tried to dig his way out, but fell deeper into the sea of glass and sand before the darkness suffocated him once again.

* * *

Malik jolted out of his sleep, sitting up and gasping for breath. Sweat clung to his forehead, Malik pushing his bangs out of his face, his heart racing. He took in several, grateful breaths, the taste of sand leaving a dry feeling in his mouth. Malik’s eyes darted about the room, struggling to make out the details with the sunlight being dampened by the curtains.

His eyes settled on the dresser, spotting the picture of him and siblings on a trip to Kyoto. He saw his deck, untouched over the years due to the sour taste of all that had happened hanging over him. His lavender top and khakis were gone; instead, Malik sat in a pair of sweatpants and a red t-shirt he didn’t remember having previously. But then, he'd never paid attention to his loungewear before.

Only after he saw the red, silken sheets before him did everything sink in. He was home, in his apartment. His hands quickly reached to his pockets, a tremor wracking him when neither the figurine nor the hourglass could be felt. Malik squeezed his eyes shut, resting an elbow on his knee and pressing his hands against his eyes to fight the urge to cry.

It was all a dream. He should have known. He should have fucking known.

It had felt so real that Malik had been convinced it had to have happened. Instead, grief swelled in him for even hoping that his fate could ever have been changed.

He would fight a thousand times over to have Bakura back. He was foolish to think this childish dream could ever see fruition in a single attempt.

Malik fell back onto the bed, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling, taking slow, even breaths to calm his nerves. The fact that he was  _ so close _ , only for it all to have been his imagination made everything worse. Dreams of Bakura made everything worse. In a way, drowning in the sand would have been a preferable ending. Better that than a future without the one he loved.

As if sensing his desire to be left alone, Malik heard his phone buzz on the nightstand next to him. He glanced over, sighing when he saw his sister’s face on the screen. He couldn’t fake happy right now. He needed more time—and Isis never gave him the time to express that feeling well.

Malik dropped the phone next to him, tapping to accept the call. “Hey, Isis.”

“Malik? Are you okay? Rishid mentioned you weren’t feeling well—“

Malik squeezed his eyes shut, a new wave of grief washing over him. “Isis, can I call you back? I need some time alone.”

He heard Isis arguing back, wanting to know how he was doing, peppering him with questions, but Malik ended the call before she could continue on. He couldn’t talk. Not now. Now when he wanted to drown himself in the red sheets below him. He turned his face to bury his nose, as if he could catch the scent of Bakura’s cologne somewhere in them.

Malik gave a low sigh, body trembling. He didn’t want to move, but he knew that if stayed there much longer, he would stay in bed all day. As tempting as it was, he'd attended enough sessions with his counselor to know it was better to take whatever little steps forward he could. Even the smallest of things could help his spirits. Despite how much doing nothing and weeping appealed to him at the moment.

Malik swung his feet off the side of the bed, standing up. His back twinged, familiar aches reminding him of the repetition of it all. There was no need to turn off a light since Malik had forgotten to turn one on the previous night when he'd come back. Even though his eyes had adjusted to the dimmer light, Malik stumbled, confused when his foot hit something solid and furry.

A sharp meow caught his ear, and Malik looked down to notice a cat dart around the corner of the bed.

When…did a cat get into his apartment?

Malik wondered if he'd left the door open when he'd come back from work the day before. Knowing his luck, he'd probably gotten robbed if that was the case. If he was lucky, only a stray cat wandered in.

He walked over, surprised by how friendly the animal was as he scooped up the kitty. The cat curled into his arms, burying its face into Malik and nibbling at the ends of his messy, golden hair. Malik brushed his hair over his shoulder, mindlessly scratching the black kitty behind the ear. He wandered out of the bedroom, confused by all the lights on in the apartment.

His confusion increased at the sounds of cabinet doors opening and shutting in his kitchen.

Malik stared at the closed door to his living room, noticing the lock in place. The banging continued from his kitchen, and Malik continued staring, not comprehending who this visitor was. Did he leave the door open? Did a stranger walk in and lock the door after entering? Did Malik have a guest over? Probably not—only Rishid had a key to his apartment, and his brother respected his privacy.

Malik took a few tentative steps towards the sound in his kitchen, not sure whether he should run and grab a weapon of some sort. He didn’t know what danger he would encounter, but his feet led him forward. He felt dazed and far too confused to think through what would be safest. The purring cat in his hands and the foreign sounds in his home were too much to process.

Malik froze at the entrance to the kitchen, blinking at the figure wandering around his kitchen. The stranger had his back to Malik, pulling out random ingredients and food before shoving them back into place and moving on to the next one. Standing on the chair, the stranger gripped the back of it, using his weight to shove it over a few inches so he could better reach the next top shelf.

Malik shook his head, staring at the silver hair, red hoodie and blue cargo pants. He didn’t know who the fuck this stranger was or how he got into his home, but something in Malik felt like he should know. Something strangely familiar and yet so foreign struck him, like a wave of nostalgia that flooded his senses.

The cat jumped out of his arms, meowing brightly as it wandered over to the stranger. The cat leaned up against the chair, front paws pressing up against the leg of the chair as it sought the red-hoodie figure’s attention.

With an aggravated sigh, the stranger turned to look down at the cat, the scar just catching Malik’s eye. “I forgot to get you your treats, Bandit. I promise to sneak you some of my dinner when Malik isn’t looking.”

Malik stumbled back, leaning against the door frame for support. He inhaled sharply, a hand shooting up to cover his mouth. His heart pounded, and suddenly, air became difficult to find. The stranger was no stranger at all. His cloak was now traded out for a generic hoodie, shenti for shorts, but his face was the same as it had been those many thousands of years ago.

The movement caught the old thief’s eye, and he turned to look at Malik. He smirked, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “Hey, you’re awake. Feeling better?”

Malik tried to laugh, but the noise caught in his throat. He shook his head, not answering Bakura’s question. Everything that had happened. The struggle of it all. It hadn’t been a dream. This was real. Or was this a dream now? If it was, Malik didn’t want to wake up. He couldn’t wake up now. He  _ needed _ this to be real. No more wishes or dreams or hopes. Malik couldn’t bear any more of that. He needed reality. He needed Bakura to be real.

Malik slid to his knees, silent and shaking. He wanted to run towards Bakura but was afraid the moment he did, he would disappear, like sand slipping through his fingers. Too many times had he been teased by the possibility of this future and too many times had Malik let himself believe it to be real when it had only been an illusion.

Only after warm, calloused hands brushed away his tears did Malik finally snap back to the present. He almost jerked away, spooked by how close Bakura was. But he remained frozen, staring at the startled expression before him. Slate purple eyes darted about Malik’s face, and silver eyebrows furrowed. The scar looked more uneven and ragged up close, not like the clean, even swipes Ryou’s brush had made on the figurine.

Malik stared at Bakura, drinking in the moment as Bakura shushed him, clearly unnerved and panicked by Malik’s break down. Malik struggled to find his voice, now aware that he was crying and choking on his words. His hands rose to clasp around Bakura’s, reassured by the touch. The touch was real, his voice was real, the thief was real, real,  _ real _ .

“I…I don’t understand,” Malik choked out, words clogging in his throat before he finally sputtered them out.

Bakura shook his head, not comprehending. “Malik, what’s wrong? Is your headache worse? Are you having an episode? Do I need to call a doctor? How do I call a doctor? Fuck—“

Malik shook his head, hands tightening around Bakura’s. The sharp contrast between the jaded, immobile Spirit of the Ring and the sardonic, yet comforting Thief King confused Malik, but he could hear it in his voice, see it in his posture. Though his soul bore the weight and trials of thousands of years, Bakura had somehow survived.

“No, I mean—how…how are you here? With me?” Malik asked, taking in several deep breaths to calm himself down.

Bakura raised an eyebrow. “You mean here in the apartment…?”

Somehow, Malik grew exasperated that Bakura couldn’t figure out his mumblings. Even now, as emotionally wrecked as he was, the urge to bicker and banter flurried up in his chest. “I mean here alive and not drowning in a sea of fire for all eternity.”

Bakura snorted, leaning back on his haunches. “First off, wrong mythology. Second—you mean my soul weighing story? I thought you got sick of me telling you that all the time.”

Did Malik hear that right? Malik figured it was as good of a place to start as any. “Yes, that. Humor me. Please.”

Bakura watched Malik, not starting the story initially but watching him carefully. Malik rubbed away the tears, trying to wipe away the evidence of his breakdown as his mind settled and his curiosity piqued. Eventually, Bakura shrugged, a small smirk on his face. “Sure. I don’t mind telling you for the thirty-seventh time.”

Bakura fell back so he landed on his butt, sitting cross-legged in front of Malik. “After everything went to shit and he-who-must-not-be-named beat me at my own game, my soul got torn from the Ring to finally be weighed. I could tell the gods were ready to have Ammit consume my soul. I was hoping I could get one last steal on them—I don’t know, take one of Ma’at’s earrings with me to my doom. That way she had one missing earring she would never get back.”

Bakura wore a large grin, scratching the back of his head. Malik knew that wicked gleam, that gleeful smile that the Spirit had worn in Ryou’s body, that same conniving look that told Malik that Bakura had a plan to challenge his own doomed fate.

This time, however, he’d finally won.

“They weighed my soul and by some grace of the gods, my heart weighed less than a feather. You should have seen the look on their faces when they saw that my sense of justice and determination saved my soul!” Bakura cackled, sounding eviler than his soul truly weighed.

“You…passed?” Malik shook his head, a smile twitching on his face.

Bakura gave a triumphant nod. “Damn right, I did. Best moment of my life…or I guess, technically death.”

Malik chuckled, shaking his head. He brushed his bangs back. Bakura’s soul weighed lighter than a feather. Everything Malik knew about the gods told him that Bakura’s fate was sealed the day he made a pact with Necrophades. The gods had every right to destroy him and break him where he stood, regardless of the wrongs committed in the past.

The idea that justice could still exist didn’t seem possible. But the evidence sat on his kitchen floor, defying expectations.

Did this happen because of Malik’s intervention in the past? Or would Bakura have always found his way to Aaru? There was no way to tell if Bakura’s soul had been saved by his actions or if Bakura’s actions were always committed with a righteous fury. In the end, they’d followed the same path that destiny dictated, but Malik knew his soul had changed on this journey. Perhaps Bakura’s had as well.

But still the facts didn’t line up. Malik furrowed his brows. “Then why are you here? Shouldn’t you be in Aaru with your village and family? Why haven’t you found peace?”

Bakura’s smirk dropped a little, his eyes flitting away. Picking at the corner of his sleeve in a manner that reminded Malik of Ryou, the legendary King of Thieves seemed more human and docile than ever before. He certainly didn’t belong on the linoleum floors of his kitchen, let alone within arm’s reach.

Bakura’s eyes stared at the off-white tiles in a sudden display of bashfulness that was so foreign to Malik. “…I wasn’t ready to move on. I didn’t get a chance to live. I never got what I wanted most in life.”

Malik bit back a chuckle. It figured that Bakura’s spite would be enough to keep him out of his grave. “I’m not surprised. You lived for revenge for three thousand years—I can’t imagine it’s easy to let go of.”

Bakura snorted, still not meeting Malik’s eyes. “I’ll never let it go. I’ll never forgive them. But that’s not what I wanted.”

Malik shook his head, eyes darting about Bakura’s face for clues. “… I don’t understand.”

He could tell Bakura didn’t want to explain. Despite teasing Malik about annoying him with this story repeatedly, it seemed Bakura hadn’t ever told him all the details. Or at least, this was something he’d glossed over in this story and Malik had previously ignored it. Maybe in this timeline, Malik didn’t care about how Bakura was here as much as he cared about having him.

This was still true, but Malik wanted answers. He needed to know how it had all happened and why Bakura was here with him now. Despite his relief, Malik needed to know.

Bakura continued to avoid eye contact, staring at the floor. After a long moment of silence, a meow interrupted them. The cat, named Bandit, climbed into Bakura’s lap, nose lifted to sniff at Bakura’s chin. Malik smiled, watching the thief mindlessly pet the cat crawling into his lap as the cat’s black paws batted at the silver hair that hung down into his face.

Bakura sighed through his nostrils, scratching the top of Bandit’s head. “I’ll never forgive the Pharaoh, but what I really wanted, I couldn’t ever have. It wasn’t enough that the Pharaoh died. I wanted him dead and I wanted them alive. All of them. My family. My village. I wanted them back but I couldn’t ever have that.”

Bandit’s purr filled the silence, and Bakura pressed his lips into the black fur on his head and then spoke, his voice soft. “But my family had already found their way to Aaru. I couldn’t have them alive, but I could have them in death. The only justice I could find was in death.”

Malik folded his hands together, resisting the urge to pet Bandit. His mind was focused on what Bakura had told him. It figured that after all the fighting and surviving to make his wish come true, Bakura could never have what he most wanted. At least, not in his lifetime. In the end, peace would come in death, if there was peace at all.

But Bakura’s response confused Malik further. Silence could provide answers, but Malik pressed on, not willing to risk it. “If they are there, why are you here then?”

Bakura said nothing, picking up Bandit to hold him closer to his chest. A small smile pricked at the corner of his lips when the black cat licked at the stubble on his chin. His voice fell into a soft whisper, barely audible over the purring. “Because I found something new I wanted in life. Something I didn’t realize I needed.”

Malik resisted the urge to slap himself. There was no way he was hearing this from Bakura of all people. Not the same jaded Spirit of the Millennium Ring who scoffed at Malik displaying any show of concern. This couldn’t be the famed King of Thieves, who murdered and terrorized Egypt with a god-like ka. This soft, vulnerable man before him couldn’t be either of them.

But wasn’t that what this was all about? Giving Bakura a chance to discover who he was without Shadow magic corrupting his mind, and a place to finally call home? Was this who Bakura was meant to be, had things not turned out as terribly as they all did?

Instead, tears welled back into Malik’s eyes without warrant. Malik hadn’t held out hope that he could change Bakura in the few days at Battle City. Maybe he didn’t really, or at least, not in the way he expected. In the end, Bakura would have still gone on to challenge the Pharaoh one last time. He had to, in order for his soul to be justified by his actions.

The two had always fought to change fate. Like Bakura mentioned when facing Malik’s own shadow, they were two sides of the same coin. So different and so similar, they would both continue to claw their way to victory to get what they wanted.

But when Malik went back in time, he didn’t fight to defeat the Pharaoh. He fought to save Bakura. His old goal didn’t matter because his anger had been misguided. Malik had never thought of redirecting Bakura’s goals because the Ring Spirit was right to want his vengeance. He’d fought to demolish those who destroyed the people he loved most.

It had never occurred to Malik that in changing his own ambitions, he’d given Bakura another reason to fight. He’d never thought that he could be Bakura’s reason to keep fighting.

Malik raised a hand, wiping away his tears before he started to sob again. Still, his throat clogged, and Malik forced a laugh. “You stupid thief. Only you would turn down the chance to go to heaven for something as terrible as this sort of life.”

Bakura snorted, placing Bandit back down in his lap. “It’s not as bad as you’d think. Technology is so fucking amazing and the food is way better nowadays. I get to eat like a king every day. Which reminds me—should I order takeout for dinner tonight?”

Of course Bakura would try to change the topic to avoid his own discomfort at being the center of the conversation. Any other day, Malik would have let him get away with it. But not today. Instead, Malik leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Bakura’s neck. He could feel Bakura jerk in his arms, surprised, but he settled in quickly, his arms wrapping around Malik’s midsection.

Malik inhaled into his silver hair, catching the scent of lavender. In a moment, he knew why Bakura had picked out that scent. Malik knew why he wore a red t-shirt and still had those red sheets. Even if they had never said it before, he knew exactly why they did this for each other. Malik had longed for the thief, fought for and against this spirit, to have this moment in their kitchen.

Bakura was neither thief nor spirit anymore, but he was here. And that was better than anything Malik could ever dream of.

Malik felt calloused fingers teasing the unmarred skin on his lower back, slow and gentle. Bakura’s voice was muffled against his t-shirt. “Uh, Malik? Take out? Am I ordering or—“

“Shut up and let me hug you,” Malik sputtered out, brushing his face into the silver locks to hide his tears. The shock now gone, elation swelled in Malik’s chest. He was going to hold on to Bakura and never let go.

“I am letting you hug me, but I’m hungry as fuck. I was planning on ordering while you slept but never got around to it!” Bakura complained, hands now moving to tickle Malik’s side.

Malik squirmed, trying not to laugh. Bandit, put off by the jumbled bodies and wriggling, wiggled his way out of Bakura’s lap and scampered off into the living room. “Damn it, now Bandit’s going to go hide now!”

His arms loosened enough that Bakura eventually squirmed his way out, very cat-like in his personal space. “Then stop being such a fucking weirdo!”

Malik rolled his eyes. This was familiar territory, something that Malik knew how to handle in this situation. Malik pulled Bakura in for a kiss, and though this was something they must have done a hundred times before, Malik revelled in the fact that, for him, it was the first time he was finally doing what he’d always wanted.

And the hazy look in Bakura’s eyes while he kissed him made it all worth it. The muscles in Bakura’s face grew slack and his chest leaned into his. His jittery hands stopped tickling him, smoothing the flats of each finger along his sides. The relaxed, loose smile when they pulled away sent Malik’s heart fluttering.

“I love you.”

Malik sputtered the words out, no filter in mind. For years he’d felt this affection, buried these feelings, ached over his emotions. He knew by the way Bakura’s eyes widened that he had never heard those words before, not from Malik, not in three thousand years. Why Malik had waited this long to admit something so true...it all seemed foolish now.

But Bakura grinned back, already in on the joke. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Malik’s. A glassy look covered his eyes as his tongue darted out to lick his lips. He said, his voice gravelly, “Yeah. You too.”

Despite the blasé tone of the words, Malik’s smile widened at the words. He saw how Bakura looked up at him, lips parted in a way that begged to be kissed. And Malik wanted to indulge in that desire, stealing another kiss, and another, from his thief. They sat on the tile floor of the apartment kitchen, kissing and clinging to each other as if letting go would tear them apart once again.

Only this time, fate could not take Bakura away from him.

Malik couldn’t stop laughing. He raised a hand to cover his mouth. Bakura seemed confused, but for a moment, he stopped caring. A grin widened on his face. Bakura was now cackling wildly. He didn’t need a reason or invitation, but for a moment, they laughed, Malik marveling at their conquered destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all she wrote! Thank you so much for reading! A special thanks to ChaosRocket for beta'ing the fic! Be sure to check out all the other amazing fics and artwork for the Alchemy of Thiefshipping!


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